Give Your Heart a Break
by KelseyO
Summary: All Quinn wants is to be invisible; she kind of gets her wish, because Rachel sees right through her. Post-3x01. Revamp of Pink. Title from the Demi Lovato song.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so. This is basically me telling the story I originally wanted to tell when I started Pink, had I been equipped with Actual Writing Skills and a fantastic beta and a Plan. Now that I have those three very important things, here is (I hope) the bigger and better version. Same universe, same concept; just moar details and thought and logic. I'm going to work my way back through the entire fic and eventually end up where I left off, then continue from there. HAPPY READING, MY FRIENDS.**

* * *

"Give me your lunch money."

The demand is bored, almost emotionless, and her voice is gravelly and weak from all of the smoking, but the freshman hands over a few crumpled dollar bills like she's being held at gunpoint. Quinn smirks as she takes the cash and turns away; her work here is done.

She counts out their profit on the side of the sink, tuning out the other girls' taunts for the most part, and her face remains completely impassive when she hears the flush and some weak gurgling noises. She's proud of herself for not flinching anymore.

They release the girl and snicker as she flees the room and The Mack whips out a celebratory pack of cigarettes.

"How much we got?" she asks as they light up.

Quinn takes a long drag before answering. "We're at eighteen bucks now." The Skanks put her in charge of "finances," since she's good at math and they're… well… not. She stuffs the wad of bills into her pocket and inhales deeply again, stifling a grimace as the smoke fills her insides with a dull burn.

The bell rings and they put out their cigarettes in the sink before leaving the bathroom, the stench of fresh tobacco rolling over everyone they pass like a storm cloud, and Quinn loves the dirty looks they get. Honestly, the disgust is a welcome change to the judgment and pity she's used to. It's a relief, pressure off her back, because since she traded in the red-and-white spandex for ripped black t-shirts, got her nose pierced, and dyed her hair, nobody has been talking about her pregnancy or her failed relationships or how much of a loser she is for being in glee club. Now they gossip about this new look of hers, and how she only goes to half her classes, and how she smokes under the bleachers with the most feared group of girls at school.

She's changed the conversation, and that's all that matters.

They turn the corner and her smirk shifts to a glower; Finn is standing by Rachel's locker, smiling his usual Good Guy smile as he waits for his girlfriend to arrive, and now she wants to hit something.

"Quinn, you ditching?" Sheila asks when they stop to write something vulgar on a locker.

She leans against the one next to it, her arms crossed as she rolls her eyes at Ronnie's Sharpie artwork. They're doing it out here in the middle of the hallway where Figgins could walk by at any moment… And come on, a curse word? As ferocious as Ronnie's jagged block letters are, Quinn can't help but think back to her one and only masterpiece, which she had the brains to draw in the privacy of the bathroom.

She recalls the finer details of her drawing and her breath catches in her throat when she looks up to see the real thing, as Rachel strides down the hall to greet Finn. They're oblivious to her glare as they exchange a peck on the lips; Quinn clenches her jaw and her fingers curl into fists and her blood is boiling just like it does every time she sees them together.

Quinn drops her gaze to the faded red and white tile floor, biting her lip so hard she might be splitting it in half. But then she's looking at Finn and Rachel again and her heart skips a beat when Rachel happens to meet her eyes. She immediately looks away and turns her back to Sheila. "Let's get out of here," she growls, looking anywhere but _there_ as they head down the hallway and through the double doors to the parking lot.

.

She really does hate smoking. It burns her throat and lungs, and tastes disgusting, and the cigarettes are expensive as hell.

(A small part of her wonders if it will affect her voice. A _very_ small part.)

But it gives her something to do besides talk to the Skanks, which she rarely does. Their conversations are always about ketchup-y tampons and rigging water fountains and setting things on fire, and she couldn't care less about any of it.

She cares that when she's with them, nobody tries to talk to her. She cares that the Skanks are like camouflage, that they make her invisible to most of the student body, that her pink hair and nose ring and mismatched clothes let her drop off the grid.

She's Quinn Fabray, and that means nothing anymore.

"You want some?" Ronnie asks, offering her the bottle of vodka they're passing around.

Quinn keeps her eyes on the concrete wall a few yards away, examining the path that each crack weaves around the others. "I'm fine."

The Mack grunts. "Y'know, for a bitch, you're really fucking boring."

She inhales on the cigarette as long as she can, then gently shoves off the railing she's leaning against and walks toward The Mack until their faces are an inch apart. "Fuck you," she breathes, the words leaving her mouth as wisps of smoke that almost hide The Mack's smirk, and walks away from the group.

"Maybe later," The Mack replies just as Quinn is about to disappear around the corner.

She clenches her jaw, puts out her cigarette on the hood of Principal Figgins's car, and heads to the auditorium.

.

It's been a week since Rachel talked to her under the bleachers, and she hasn't tried anything since. Quinn's not sure why she's thinking about this right now; maybe not _thinking_, just… acknowledging. It's just a thought that's in her head, along with how many classes she's skipped since school began (sixteen), how her new combat boots give her blisters, and how her mom hasn't been able to look her in the eye in months.

The piano bench is cold and hard as she takes a seat and begins to unlace her boots, keeping her eyes peeled for any movement in the auditorium, any sign that she isn't alone. All she sees is still darkness, so she kicks her shoes off and flexes her ankles, feet, toes, wincing at a spot on her heel that the leather's been rubbing against all day.

Quinn takes a deep breath in and out, savoring the absence of smoke in her lungs, and sets her fingers along the piano keys one by one. She checks, double checks, triple checks that she has the right chord, then begins to play; slowly and quietly, because this is for her and no one else. No one's here to tell her she's doing it wrong or to practice her technique or to work harder. There's no goal to aim for, no Regionals or Sectionals or tournament or showcase, no audience.

No watching. No scrutinizing. No judging.

How do people even get enjoyment out of performing for others? Now that she's quit, she doesn't understand why she did it in the first place. Why would you invite others to tell you everything you're doing wrong, to make _everything_ about your imperfections? Rachel's an idiot for wanting to make a career out of it.

She clenches her jaw and starts to play louder, faster, because thinking about Rachel always leads to thinking about Rachel-and-Finn, which always leads to vague feelings of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She's over him, and over him leaving her for Rachel (twice), but they're not even _good_ for each other, for God's sake. Their relationship turns them both into whiny, selfish infants, and it's a pain in the ass to watch every day.

Not that she watches them. They're just there, and she sees them, and that's it.

Quinn is playing even harder now. How dare Rachel approach her, venture into Skank territory to tell her blatant lies about how much glee club needs her, how much she's _missed_, because she knows none of that's true. Rachel might like to think they're all family, but where was everyone when Quinn got pregnant, after she had Beth, during her meltdown in New York? Yeah, there was "Keep Holding On" and Santana deciding a haircut would solve everything… but no one was really _there_. There's a difference between singing "Lean On Me" and actually being there to lean on.

She stumbles on a note and immediately her fingers freeze mid-stroke. Her breaths are coming out in audible huffs and every muscle in her body is tense, ready for something, though she's not sure what.

After a long moment, Quinn deflates; she lets the air out of her lungs, lets her posture sag, lets her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes are burning but she refuses to let the tears come, because when you cry it means you're sad or upset or scared, and she isn't any of those things.

She stuffs her feet back into her boots and leaves the auditorium without looking back.

.

Quinn makes herself go to English, because if she skips three classes in a row they'll call her mom, and she really doesn't need that kind of attention.

(Plus, if she's being honest, she actually likes the book they're reading.)

She gets there early so she can sit wherever she wants, and she opts for a desk in the back by the windows. She takes out _The Metamorphosis_, flips to a random page, and begins to read. The book isn't new to her—she read it on her own a few years ago—but she thinks it might be one of those stories that changes a little each time. When she was a freshman, it was about a guy with awful luck who tried his best to stay positive and work with what he had. Now, it's about someone with no control over their body who gets ostracized by their own family for not being normal.

Quinn may not be living life as a gigantic bug, but she can definitely relate.

"Hello, Quinn."

Her eyes lift and she finds Rachel sitting a few yards away, smiling at Quinn over her shoulder.

Quinn cocks an eyebrow. "Hey," she mutters flatly, then goes back to reading. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Rachel face the front of the classroom again, and she grits her teeth just a little. That's it? _"Hello, Quinn"_? Rachel Berry, the girl who never shuts up during glee club, is satisfied with a three-word conversation? And why would she even say that to Quinn in the first place? Most of the student body is scared to even _look_ at her, yet Rachel just—

She shakes her head and brings her thoughts to a screeching halt, because this is the last thing she should be worrying about right now. Rachel can do whatever the hell she wants.

Like date Finn.

(She wishes Rachel was sitting further away.)

.

Quinn doesn't follow her out of the room or down the hall when class ends; it just happens that they're both going in the same direction. She needs to dump her stuff in her locker so she can meet the Skanks behind the bleachers, and it's not her fault if Rachel just happens to be walking several paces in front of her the whole time.

She reaches her locker and twists the combination and yanks the door open, keeping her eyes straight ahead because it doesn't matter where Rachel is or what she's doing, so there's no use in looking around to see.

"Hi!" she hears Rachel greet from somewhere behind her.

She turns around without thinking, just in time to see Rachel stand on her tip-toes to give Finn a kiss.

Quinn slams her door closed and storms away, her boots clunking heavily against the floor, and she feels like she can't get away fast enough.

Even though she's not "getting away" from anything, because it doesn't matter what Rachel does, because Quinn doesn't care.

.

She ends up _on_ the bleachers instead, because she has a headache and she knows the cigarettes will only make it worse, and because she's used up today's quota of patience for dealing with things she doesn't want to deal with.

She sneaks around the far side of the football field and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bleachers from the Skanks' hangout spot—the lowest bench, because her boots are so goddamn loud and she doesn't want them to hear her climbing up and down.

Quinn opens to where she left off in class, at the part when Gregor is insisting that he'll be able to go to work tomorrow, and a soft laugh slips from her throat. The poor guy is in complete denial that his life has changed forever, that he'll never be able to go back to the way things were, the way they're _supposed _to be. He has no idea that his parents won't even be able to look at him; he has no idea that he's completely alone in this.

"You didn't tell us you started a book club."

Her head snaps up at The Mack's voice and she sees the Skanks coming toward her, lit cigarettes in hand, and she really wishes she had some Advil. Quinn stretches and sinks back into her seat as if she's completely relaxed. "Didn't think you guys would be interested."

The Mack puts her hand on her chest. "That hurts, Quinnie. I totally wanna read about…" She reaches over and lifts the book up so she can read the title. "…A fuckin' butterfly," she finishes, unable to hold in her laughter.

Quinn takes a breath to correct her, but bites her tongue at the last second.

"Seriously," Sheila says, "I don't get why you waste your time with this crap. Come key teachers' cars with us."

She's not sure what would be worse: saying she's reading for class, or saying she's reading for fun. "I… can't," she mumbles, closing her book. "I have to go." When she stands up, The Mack is directly in front of her, so close that they're practically nose-to-nose and she has nowhere to move.

"Do you think you're better than us, Fabray?" Her voice is quiet, cold, and the tobacco on her breath makes Quinn want to gag; her head is pounding. "You're not. You'd be _nothing_ without us. Understand?"

Quinn swallows but doesn't break eye contact. "Yes." The Mack's gaze dips to her mouth as she says the word, and something in her chest clenches.

"Good." The Mack brings up her hand and gives her two light smacks on the cheek. "Start acting like it." She steps away and Sheila follows her in the direction of the parking lot, but Ronnie lingers just long enough to look Quinn in the eye for longer than she ever has before.

But then she's gone too, and Quinn's alone again.

She counts to sixty in her head three times before getting up and heading for the auditorium as fast as those godforsaken boots will carry her, but when she reaches the door, it's locked.

"_Fuck_," she snaps, banging on the door once with her first, her eyes burning again.

There's no one she can fucking count on at this school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beta'd by ProfessorSpork, as always.**

* * *

It's fourth period, and they've only earned ten bucks from terrorizing the underclassmen, and The Mack is pissed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She puts out her cigarette on the underside of one of the bleachers above her and pulls out a new one from her pack, then glances at Quinn. "I thought we got ten just from that first kid."

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "No," she says slowly, like she's talking to a first grader, "We got _a_ dollar from him. One."

"Gimme that," The Mack growls, grabbing the cash from Quinn and sorting through wrinkled bills herself. When she's done, she eyes Quinn carefully. "You're not holding out on us, are you? Because if I found out you were tucking shit away behind our backs, you'd be dead."

Quinn throws The Mack a glare. "You really think I would risk you kicking my ass just for some extra money? I just take what you give me and put it in my pocket."

"See, that's the thing," Sheila interrupts, "You just stand there. _We're_ the ones who do all the work."

"That's bullshit," Quinn mutters, rolling her eyes and fiddling with her cigarette.

Ronnie takes a long drag from her own. "She's right, Quinn. All of us have gotten our hands dirty… but not you."

Quinn holds out her hands in exasperation. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'll tell you exactly what you can do," The Mack replies, her smile managing to be both pleasant and cold. "You can get off your fucking high horse, and actually act like a Skank. Anybody can put on different clothes," she continues, giving Quinn a once-over, and Quinn shivers. "But if you don't have the balls to _be _one of us? Then you're out." The corner of her lip twitches just slightly. "And so is everything else."

Quinn clenches her jaw a few times. "Fine," she says as calmly as she can, even though her insides are on fire because only five people know about _everything else_ and she's counting on it staying that way.

That's why she ends up in the bathroom with them twenty minutes later, waiting for a defenseless classmate to show up so she can completely ruin their day. She's standing by the sink closest to the door while The Mack and Ronnie and Sheila hang back in the corner, awaiting her first "solo performance."

Watching, scrutinizing, judging.

The door opens and a short girl with red hair walks in, a huge smile on her face like she just aced a test or got asked on a date by the boy she likes. A smile that Quinn's about to literally flush down the toilet.

When she was Cheerio captain she did her fair share of ordering slushies and swirlies, but she never actually _did_ them; she was rarely even around to see them happen. She could handle the looks of humiliation or defeat that told her what had been done, but she never dealt with anyone directly. She didn't need to, because she was respected, feared, on top.

Now she's just a whole lot of unimpressive nothing.

"Hey, sweetie," she says with a smirk, her voice low and scratchy.

The girl's face falls and her eyes widen as she calculates her chances of escape; she flinches when Quinn slings her arm around her shoulders and tries to squirm out of Quinn's grip as she leads her to the first empty stall.

"D'you really think putting up a fight is gonna make a difference?" Quinn murmurs into her ear.

She sniffs and a tear rolls down her cheek but she stops struggling, and Quinn stifles a sigh of relief at how easily this girl is accepting her fate.

Quinn lifts her arm and instead grabs the back of the girl's collar. "Kneel." She obeys, and Quinn leans over a little. "Hold your breath," she whispers, forcing all the emotion out of her voice, then pushes the girl's head down and flushes.

She turns and leaves the stall without waiting for the girl to put herself back together, walking up to the sink and pulling out her pack of cigarettes. Quinn tunes everything else out and instead busies herself with counting how many she has left; she has to stifle a flinch when The Mack is suddenly behind her, locking eyes with Quinn in the mirror.

"Nice work, kiddo," she says with a smirk, then holds out a small wad of cash. "Ain't that way better than just taking money?"

Quinn curves her lips into a matching expression. "I'd forgotten how much I missed that." She takes the bills and shoves them in her pocket with the rest of them before following the Skanks out of the bathroom.

Adrenalin is rushing through her veins, and she focuses on that instead of thinking about the vague sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She's never seen that girl before today, and she'll probably never see her again, so there's no reason to think about what she did to her, no reason to feel bad.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A few yards ahead a member of the chess club is trying desperately to talk his way out of a slushy attack and a few seconds later he's covered in bright green corn syrup. As they walk by she sticks out a finger and swipes it gently along his cheek, then brings it to her mouth and licks it off.

Lime.

The Mack is laughing and saying something about going to 7/11 after school, but Quinn's only half-listening. She's just locked eyes with Rachel, who's apparently been watching them this whole time, and she's giving Quinn this look of disappointment that makes the vague sick feeling in her stomach not so vague anymore.

Quinn drags her gaze away and glares at the floor instead.

_Fuck_ Rachel.

.

Since the swirly in the bathroom she's helped the Skanks get three more rounds of lunch money, and this is the first day since school started that they haven't bitched at her about something. It's refreshing, someone being satisfied with her; it makes her feel invincible, because no matter who she pisses off with these things she's doing, TheMack and Sheila and Ronnie have her back.

Quinn holds on to that as she walks down the hall, because they're all smoking under the bleachers right now and there's no buffer between her and everyone else. She's not even sure why she's so anxious, though, because it's not like anyone tries to interact with her anyway.

Save one exception.

She rolls her eyes and turns the corner to go to her locker, and as she spins the combination, she hears a familiar voice.

"Come on, guys… please don't do this."

Quinn turns her head just enough to see Artie several yards away, surrounded by a group of jocks, one of whom has a slushy in hand. She looks away and instead stares hard at the back of her locker, holding the door in a white-knuckle grip as she tells herself over and over that it's not worth it, that there's no reason for her to do it, that nothing good can come of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"Last time it took _weeks_ for my mom and me to clean my chair. Can't you just give me a wedgie or throw me in the dumpster or something?"

One of the jocks laughs. "Does it look like we're here to bargain?" he asks in an awful attempt at a British accent.

Quinn rolls her eyes; impressions have definitely gone downhill at WMHS since Sam left. She slams her locker shut, quickly glances down the hall to make sure the Skanks aren't around, and heads toward Artie and the football players with as much composure as she can manage. "Y'know," she says, her voice low and teasing, "this can't be much fun when he can't run away."

The guy with the slushy glares at her, and she recognizes his bright blue eyes and freckles. This kid used to follow her around like a puppy during her Cheerio days; Eric, she thinks. "Fuck off, Fabray."

She shrugs. "I mean, I understand if you can't handle a more challenging target." Quinn holds his gaze as she says it; mostly to seem more intimidating than she feels, but also because there's no way she's looking at Artie.

She's so focused on keeping eye contact that she doesn't see his hand move, but then she's covered in ice cold, grape-flavored corn syrup, and she can't hold back the flinch or the small gasp that escapes her lips.

He comes closer until his face is inches from hers, and every muscle in her body tenses because Santana was always the only person in McKinley gear who dared to get into Quinn's personal space. "You're right. That was way more fun." He sneers before backing away and heading down the hall with his friends.

Quinn hasn't moved. Her fists are clenched at her sides and her shoulders are stiff and she never should've done this, never should've put herself in this stupid situation because now she's cold and wet and shaking and _vulnerable_, and none of those things are okay.

"What is your _problem_?" Artie snaps from beside her.

Her eyes start to burn, because even when she realizes he's shouting at Eric and his friends and not at her, she can't help but wonder.

She wipes some of the slushy off her face and starts to look around for the nearest bathroom, but then she finds the last pair of eyes she wants to see right now.

Rachel is standing outside the door to their English class, staring at her with a horrified expression on her face, and Quinn meets her gaze for a single beat before taking off in the opposite direction.

She walks and walks and walks, as fast as she can without running, because when you run it means you're scared or upset or about to cry, and she isn't any of those things.

(Plus, these boots are a fucking _joke_.)

The bathroom in the science wing has constant plumbing problems and is usually deserted, which is exactly what she's counting on when she bursts through the door. Quinn all but punches each stall door open to make sure she's alone, and when she finally turns around and sees her reflection in one of the mirrors, she wants to punch that, too.

Her hair is damp, her clothes are soaked, and makeup and purple slushy running down her face; she looks about as menacing as a five-year-old who's playing dress-up in her mother's closet. She rips a few paper towels from the dispenser and tries to dry herself off, but everything's sticky and it doesn't help that her hands are trembling.

She crumples the paper towels into tiny balls and grips either side of the porcelain, her arms rigid and knuckles white as she takes deep breaths in and out, because she can feel the tears behind her eyes but she can't, she _won't_, let them out. She just needs to be alone for a bit and get herself under control again, go back to being a true Skank and not caring about anyone or anything, because caring only ever makes things worse.

The door opens and closes and her breath catches in her throat at the sudden intrusion. "Get out," she growls without turning around.

"Quinn?"

Rachel's soft voice makes her grimace, and she squeezes her eyes closed. "Get out," she repeats.

She hears a quiet, hesitant step forward. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_," Quinn mutters through gritted teeth. "Leave me alone."

Rachel doesn't move. "Let me help you with that."

Quinn opens her eyes and finds Rachel's in the mirror. "I've got it, okay?" she snaps.

"It helps if you wet the paper towel first," Rachel offers, pulling some from the dispenser and running them under the faucet. She holds them out to Quinn when she's done, not giving up even when Quinn doesn't accept them.

She really wants to, though, because she's shivering and she feels disgusting, so after clenching her jaw a few times she finally pulls them from Rachel's hand. Quinn wipes off her face and neck and arms as quickly as she can, avoiding Rachel's eyes again.

"I saw what you did for Artie," Rachel says, wetting more paper towels for her. "Quinn, that was a really brave thing to—"

"No. It was stupid."

Rachel's eyebrows pull together slightly. "How can you say that? I—"

"You," she interrupts, "don't know anything."

"So explain it to me."

The response is so calm, so simple, and for a moment Quinn just blinks at her. "Fuck you," she finally whispers before turning away and leaving the bathroom without another word.

It's only when the door closes behind her that a single tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away.

.

Quinn skips the rest of her classes to go home and shower. She dumps her slushied clothes in the trash (she figures if her mom found them in the laundry, she'd toss them anyways) and gets dressed again, then heads to the gas station a few minutes away.

The Skanks are already halfway through a round of cigarettes when Quinn shows up, and The Mack arches an eyebrow at her.

"Where've you been?"

Quinn shrugs and takes out her own pack. "Home. Some bitch spilled her drink on me." Not entirely untrue.

The Mack gives her another careful onceover and Quinn prays that they haven't heard about the slushy (not that anyone up there is listening); finally, The Mack relaxes. "Whatever. You want a drink?" Her tone is challenging as she holds up a bottle in a paper bag.

"What is it?"

"What's it matter?"

Quinn takes a long drag on her cigarette and then holds out her free hand. The Mack smirks and has Ronnie pass the bottle to Quinn, who knocks back a swig before she can think about it anymore. It's vodka and it burns her throat, but she does her best to suppress a grimace. "Thanks," she says, gesturing for one of them to take it back, but The Mack just holds up her hand.

"Keep it. Take the edge off."

Quinn glances down at the bottle, thinking about everyone she made miserable today, about being covered in slushy, about Rachel thinking she fucking knows anything, and takes another gulp. The Mack gives her an approving smirk and Quinn drinks again, because why shouldn't she?

Sheila, Ronnie, and The Mack keep smoking and Quinn keeps drinking, and when the ground starts to sway below her she leans against the side of the building and slides down until she's sitting on the pavement. Quinn's not sure why she thought drinking was such a bad idea, or why she protected Artie today, or why Rachel seems determined to "fix" her or whatever. She always thought Rachel's obsessive perfectionism was exclusive to her own talents, but maybe she's like Quinn's parents. Maybe she can't tolerate the imperfections of the people around her, either. Maybe she's just another person who knows Quinn can't do anything right.

Quinn laughs a little, because she's always fucking thinking about Rachel.

"Finn, I _told_ you the gas tank is on the right side."

She freezes with the bottle at her lips. "Are you kidding me?" she mumbles to herself, leaning over so she can see around the corner of the building, and sure enough she sees Rachel and Finn standing next to his black pickup truck. Rachel looks annoyed and Finn just looks confused, and Quinn starts laughing again because they're seriously the stupidest couple she's ever seen in her life.

"Quinn?"

She looks up, and of course, Rachel is standing in front of her. "Rachel," she replies before drinking again.

Rachel doesn't look nearly as confident as she did in the bathroom as she eyes the covered bottle in Quinn's hand. "Is that alcohol?"

Quinn smiles. "Yep."

"It's against the law to purchase alcohol as a minor," she says weakly, like she knows Quinn doesn't give one single shit about what's against the law.

"It's a good thing The Mack stole it from her parents, then," Quinn slurs.

"Quinn, you bragging about me again?" The Mack asks with a smirk, she and the rest of the Skanks suddenly reappearing. "You're too cute."

Rachel looks extremely uncomfortable now and Quinn kind of feels bad, but she's also laughing again because Rachel's cheeks are flushed and she's nibbling her lower lip, and it just looks so—

"You okay, Rachel?" Finn's inserted himself into the situation, standing between Rachel and the Skanks.

Quinn glares at him. "She's fine, dipshit," she murmurs under her breath, but apparently she's bad at whispering when there's alcohol in her system, because everyone looks at her and The Mack snorts.

Finn ignores the insult and his eyes soften. "Rach told me what you did today, Quinn. That was really cool."

Her insides turn to ice and she downs another sip. "I don't know what you're talking about," she chokes out, risking a glance at The Mack, who's peering curiously at Finn.

Rachel nudges his arm and shakes her head at him.

"No, you told me—Artie was gonna get slushied and then Quinn—"

"Shut _up_!" Quinn shouts, trying to get to her feet, but she wobbles a little and Rachel instantly reaches out to steady her. Quinn clutches at the support, but once she realizes what she's doing, she takes a big step back.

Finn frowns. "Are you _drunk_?"

"Fucking genius, over here," Sheila mutters.

Rachel is tugging on his elbow now. "Finn, we should go."

He glances at Quinn again. "Let me drive you home," he says gently, like he's doing her the biggest favor ever, and Rachel takes his hand and nods in agreement.

"I don't need your help." She means to look at Finn when she says it, but she's kind of looking at Rachel too.

Finn takes a step forward. "Come on, Quinn. It's no problem."

She backs up until she's against the wall again, and she wants to laugh even more because there are so many problems. "Have a lovely evening," Quinn mutters, locking eyes with him as she takes another swig.

His expression slowly falls until he's almost glaring at her. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs to Rachel, who looks warily at Quinn as she follows him back to the truck.

When they drive away, The Mack's attention is on Quinn. "What was he talking about?" she asks casually enough, but Quinn can hear the warning beneath the question.

"Fuck if I ever know." Quinn takes one final gulp and thrusts the bottle into Ronnie's hands. "Thanks for the vodka," she says, then takes off down the street before any of them can say anything else.

She spends the walk home concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and manages not to stumble too much, but by the time she opens the front door her feet are absolutely aching. She kicks off her boots as she wobbles through the foyer and one of them hits the wall with a loud _thunk_.

"Quinnie, is that you?" Her mom appears in the doorway to the kitchen before Quinn can answer. "Dinner's almost ready."

"'m not hungry," Quinn mumbles, heading up the stairs.

"How was school?"

Quinn pauses. "I don't really know, actually. I didn't go to class." She thinks a little. "Oh, and I ran into Eric Miller. He says hello." She's holding on to the banister for dear life; it's really hard to balance on stairs _and_ try to say all the words correctly.

"That's… wonderful," her mom says slowly. "Why didn't you go to class? Were you not feeling well?"

She shrugs. "Nah, I was just busy. I _was_ in the bathroom a lot, though," she adds, and cracks up laughing.

Quinn can practically hear her mom's arms cross. "Have you been _drinking_, young lady?"

"You're getting really good at that 'stern mom' voice."

"Lucy Quinn Fabray, this behavior is unacceptable." Her frown deepens. "It's those girls you've been hanging out with, isn't it?"

Quinn just laughs again. "At least I'm not sleeping with them, right?"

Her mom doesn't respond; she's really good at that, being silent.

She slips into her bedroom and closes the door loudly. Her stomach is grumbling but she ignores it; she's not even sure if she could keep anything down right now. Without the Skanks to worry about, without the booze to distract her, that sick feeling is back with vengeance, and she can't blame it on Rachel this time.

Quinn crawls into bed, laughing softly as she curls up under the covers, because she's always fucking thinking about Rachel.


	3. Chapter 3

**wOW so hey, it's been a while. College, personal life things, the Universe is dumb, etc. Beta'd by ProfessorSpork.**

* * *

A loud banging wakes her up, and she's not sure why there's suddenly a construction site in the hallway, but she really wishes they would put their fucking jackhammers away.

Quinn opens her eyes and immediately closes them again when her head nearly explodes with pain; she lifts her pillow and pushes it against her ear to drown out the noise.

"Quinnie!" More banging. "You need to get ready for school!"

She frowns into her mattress, trying to remember what school even is, and after a few moments everything from yesterday comes rushing back.

"You're going to be late, honey."

Quinn rolls over and takes a breath so she can tell her mom to shut up, but then a wave of nausea hits her and she's stumbling out of bed as fast as she can. She throws open the door fully intending to shove past her mom and book it to the bathroom, but then she hunches over right there in the doorway and hurls.

Her mom backs away just in time for whatever's left in Quinn's stomach to end up on the carpet instead of her slippers, and Quinn is painfully aware of the way her arm automatically curls around her abdomen as she retches.

When her insides calm down she takes a few deep breaths, gripping the doorframe for support. "Not going," she manages.

Judy sighs. "I'll get some Lysol."

"You fucking do that," Quinn mutters under her breath as she finally makes her way to the bathroom. She turns on the faucet and scoops some water into her mouth, swishing it around for a few moments before spitting into the sink. She yanks open the top drawer of the counter and rifles through its contents until she finds a bottle of aspirin; her hands are shaking a little but she eventually gets the cap off and knocks two capsules back.

She goes back out to the hallway and her mom is coming up the stairs, wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a spray bottle in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. Quinn arches an eyebrow at her before heading to her room and closing the door, but even then she can hear the plastic trigger and the paper towels rubbing against the carpet fibers.

She flops onto her bed, buries herself in her covers, and tries to block out all light and sound from the world.

"Quinn, you should eat something," her mom calls from out in the hallway, and when Quinn doesn't respond, the door opens. "Quinn—"

"Do we have any ginger tea?" she interrupts, trying to make her throat sound extra raspy as she rolls over in her bed a little.

"I believe we do, yes."

Quinn swallows and makes a show of pulling the blankets snugly up to her chin. "Can you make some? Mercedes's mom used to make it for me when I was pregnant. It helps with the nausea."

There's a long beat of silence. "Of course," her mom says quietly, and the door closes again.

Quinn takes a deep breath in and out and tries to lay as still as possible. Her head is pounding and her stomach feels like it could revolt at any moment; she hasn't felt this not-in-control of her body since—

She lunges for the wastebasket next to her desk and just barely grabs it in time to save the carpet from more puke. After a few dry-heaves she collapses back onto her bed and burrows into her blankets again and tries to keep her mind blank.

Not too difficult, seeing as how every single particle in her brain is giving her a ton of shit right now. She focuses all of her energy on each inhale and exhale, filling her lungs and then emptying them, over and over again, steady and consistent. This is one thing she knows she can do.

There's a quiet knock on her door before it opens, and a few moments later she hears a mug being placed on her nightstand.

"You should eat something."

"I'll just puke it up."

"Quinn," she replies with just the slightest hint of warning, "Drink the tea to calm your stomach, and then you need to eat."

"I'm fine, I'll drink it in a second," she mutters against her blankets, but then they're pulled back and out of her grasp. "What the hell—"

"You are _not_ fine," her mom interrupts. "You're reckless, and irresponsible, and _hungover_—"

A small laugh bursts from Quinn's throat. "So _that's_ why I feel like shit. Thanks for clarifying."

Her mom's lips are pressed into a thin, pale line. "What happened to you, Quinnie?" she asks, her tone quiet now.

Quinn looks her square in the eye. "You," she says softly, coldly, before yanking the covers back over herself again.

Her mom doesn't move for a long moment. "I'll call Principal Figgins and let him know you're home sick." Her voice is thick.

Quinn can't bring herself to care.

.

She's so fucking happy she doesn't have to smoke any cigarettes today. It's early afternoon now and her head is still aching and she can barely take five breaths without suppressing the urge to puke again. She finally gathers the energy to sit up and grab the mug with a shaking hand; the tea is cold now, but she takes a sip anyway, then lunges for the wastebasket again and vomits it back up.

The taste reminds Quinn of plus signs and morning sickness and feeling a person growing inside of her, of carrying that life under her shirt and then holding it in her arms nine months later, of giving that life away to someone she barely knew.

She wipes her mouth, grabs the mug, and empties it in the bathroom sink.

.

Quinn's phone buzzes against her nightstand, dragging her out of the achy sleep she'd finally settled into, and she frowns against her pillow. She snakes an arm out from under her blankets and feels around for a moment before bringing the phone into the darkness with her, which ends up being a horrible idea because the light from the screen kills her eyes and sends a jolt of pain through her skull.

When her vision finally clears and she squints at the screen again, she assumes she's hallucinating or something. Does that happen during hangovers?

Because why the hell would she have a text from Rachel?

She rolls her eyes and drops the phone face-down on the mattress, because what could Rachel want to say to her? Maybe she's alerted the Lima Police about Quinn's underage drinking, or maybe she's run out of people who will listen to her complain about Finn and needs a new set of ears. Whatever it is, Quinn doesn't care.

But seriously, what would Rachel possibly be texting her about?

She chews on her bottom lip as she picks up her phone again and opens the message, then reads each word carefully to make sure she hasn't misinterpreted anything.

**I noticed you're not at school today. Are you all right?**

Quinn arches an eyebrow in disbelief, though given the fact that Rachel's been butting in so much recently, she shouldn't be surprised that she's escalating to electronic communication. She glares at the message until the screen goes black again, and she's definitely not going to text Rachel back, not give her the satisfaction of a response. Besides, what does she care if Rachel's worried or whatever? Her paranoia isn't Quinn's responsibility.

Then again, she wouldn't put it past Rachel to assume that silence means the worst and send an ambulance over.

"**I'm fine**" is the reassuring response she comes up with, and not even a minute after she sends it, she gets another text.

**I'm not sure I believe you, but your response indicates that you're at least alive and functioning. I'll see you tomorrow.**

Quinn glares so hard at the screen, she half expects it to crack. _I'm not sure I believe you_… Where the fuck does Rachel get off saying something like that? _Dear Quinn, allow me to ask you a question and then assume your answer is bullshit. Dear Quinn, I enjoy meddling in your life even though you clearly wish to be left alone. Dear Quinn, my boyfriend is a fucking moron and I need your help to stick him in a box and ship him to Greenland._

She frowns into the darkness and slams her phone back onto the nightstand, because she's really starting to hate how much she thinks about this stuff.

_See you tomorrow_.

Fuck her.

.

This time it's Quinn's stomach that wakes her up, growling and twisting itself into painful knots, begging her to put something in it so it doesn't have to devour itself.

She sits up and her headache stays at a dull roar, so she swings her legs over the side of the bed and gets to her feet. The floor sways beneath her for a moment but she grits her teeth and takes a few deep breaths until the dizziness passes, then slowly makes her way downstairs. The kitchen seems farther away than usual but she finally makes it over the threshold, and just as she's mentally jumping for joy that her mom is MIA, she hears her come in from the living room.

"Quinn?"

She turns around too fast and her head starts spinning and she reaches out to grip the wall, but then there's a hand on her wrist and an arm around her waist and she _really_ wishes Rachel would stop trying to help her—

"Sweetie, you need to eat something."

She blinks her vision into focus and realizes it's her mom looking back at her, then immediately twists out of her hold. "I _got_ it," she grumbles, carefully making her way over to the fridge, and it takes an obnoxious amount of effort to yank it open and pull out a jug of orange juice. Quinn can feel her mom watching her as she gets a glass from the cupboard, pours some juice, and takes a few long gulps, and when she swallows the final sip, it takes all her self control not to slam the glass against the counter. "Do you have nothing better to do than stand there and make sure I don't fuck anything else up?"

There's a long moment of silence. "I love you, Quinnie," her mom says in a small voice, "I love you so much—"

"What did God say that one time?" Quinn interrupts, putting her glass in the sink. "'Thou shall not lie' or some shit like that."

"Language," her mom replies half-heartedly.

Quinn laughs as she grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard. "Man, this house is just _full_ of sinners. Think if I call Dad and tell him you've been bearing false witness, he'll make you see a shrink, too?"

A tear slips down her mom's cheek and she quickly wipes it away. "Why do you think I don't love you?"

"Should I start from the beginning and work my way forward, or would you prefer the most recent examples first?" She pops some Honey Nut Cheerios into her mouth and crunches them loudly. "Or I can just skip around. Whatever's easiest."

Her mom swallows hard but doesn't say anything.

Quinn smiles. "Think it over and give me a shout when you decide." She leaves the kitchen still munching on Cheerios and heads back up to her room, curls up in her bed with the cereal box, and grabs her phone again.

_I noticed you're not at school today. Are you all right?_

She pops another handful of Cheerios into her mouth and thinks about the way her mom's mouth tightens when she's trying not to cry; the way that red-headed girl's eyes changed when she recognized Quinn as the predator and herself as prey. She thinks about how she can't make The Mack happy without making everyone else miserable.

"_You can get off your fucking high horse and actually act like a Skank."_

Quinn can still feel the girl quaking beneath her arm as she led her into the bathroom stall.

"_It's those girls you've been hanging out with, isn't it?"_

She feels The Mack standing behind her, breathing down her neck, smirking into the mirror. _"Nice work, kiddo."_

Quinn puts her phone back on the table, lets the cereal box fall to the floor, and curls up under her blankets again.

_Are you all right?_

She's fine.

.

Quinn goes straight to the bleachers when she gets to school the next day, cigarette already half-smoked and apathetic expression firmly in place; knowing the Skanks, she's probably supposed to be twice as much of an asshole as usual to make up for her absence.

"Hey, sweetie," The Mack greets, her voice unnaturally pleasant. "We missed you yesterday."

Quinn takes a long drag on her cigarette to give herself more time to think, because she has no fucking clue how to respond to that. "Shucks, guys," she finally mutters, smirking just a little as she takes a seat on the couch.

"Bet that cripple kid missed you more," Sheila says with an unreadable expression, and Quinn almost drops her cigarette.

"Excuse me?"

The Mack sits at the other end of the couch and swings her legs over before dropping her feet into Quinn's lap and crossing her ankles. "Well, if you ain't around, who's gonna be his slushy savior?"

Quinn swallows hard and focuses all her attention on taking another drag. "If there's something you wanna say"—she blows the smoke out—"Just fucking say it."

She nods. "Okay. How 'bout, what the _fuck_."

"Ever so eloquent," Quinn murmurs under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." She flicks some ash away. "Lay it on me."

The Mack laughs. "You really want me to lay it on you?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I have shit to do, so if this is just gonna go in circles all day—"

She gets off the couch and leans over Quinn, planting a hand on the back cushion to the left and right of Quinn's head. Her knee comes up to rest next to Quinn's thigh, then the other knee on the other side, until The Mack is basically straddling her.

Something in her stomach twists, because she's never been this close to a girl and her body is filled with this electricity that absolutely terrifies her.

"Look," The Mack breathes, their faces barely an inch apart, "I'm not messing around anymore. You _need_ us, and we need you to quit these fucking charity cases."

With every passing moment she has to remind herself not to move, not to lean forward or touch or react at all, because it's The Mack and there's nothing right about this.

"Me and Ronnie and Sheila," she continues, waiting a beat in between each name, "are the only reason why you're not the laughing stock of this fucking school right now."

Quinn clenches her jaw a few times and tries to keep her breathing even. "What's your point?"

"Tell me to my face that you don't have a soft spot for those losers."

She can feel The Mack's hot breath against her mouth. "I don't."

The Mack smiles. "Great," she says, then slowly wets her lips. "Berry's your new target."

Quinn's throat goes dry and clears her throat. "Why?"

"Why _not_?" The Mack cocks her head to the side. "Since when do you give a shit who we go after?"

"I don't," she replies, just barely keeping her voice steady. "What d'you want me to do?"

The Mack frowns thoughtfully. "I mean, the way you stare at that chick… I figure you either hate her guts, or…"

"Just tell me what the _fuck_ do you want me to do," Quinn grits out; her heart is racing and she feels like her entire body is on fire.

She laughs again, softly this time. "Up to you, kiddo. I'm giving you some freedom this time. Be creative." She ends her sentence with a wink and abruptly pushes herself back off the couch, tossing one final smirk over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Quinn hasn't moved a muscle. Her fists are clenched at her sides and every inch of her is rigid, tense, still in defensive mode even though The Mack is gone. It takes her a few seconds to realize that Sheila and Ronnie have vanished as well, and that she has no idea if they were even here to see what just happened. She's not sure which scenario she'd hate more.

But none of that matters right now because she's up and walking quickly, _not_ running, to the auditorium, so she can be alone and small and invisible and safe. Her eyes are burning by the time she reaches the door, but then it's opening from the inside and she stops in her tracks because Rachel is suddenly in front of her.

"Hello, Quinn!" she greets with a smile. "Were you… going to use the auditorium?"

Quinn shakes her head. "No. I was—no," she mutters, turning to walk away.

"My allotted practice time is over—the stage is completely free, if you want it."

"I don't," she replies without looking back.

"Music can be a very beneficial emotional outlet—"

Quinn whips around. "If I want your opinion," she snaps, "I'll ask for it."

Rachel nibbles her bottom lip for a moment. "Thank you for texting me back yesterday. For letting me know you were okay."

Quinn turns on her heel and starts walking as fast as she can, and this time Rachel doesn't say anything.

.

By lunch she's all but exhausted herself trying to avoid both the Skanks and Rachel. She wonders several times why she got trapped in this mess in the first place, but then she remembers The Mack's face right up against hers, explaining _exactly_ why she is where she is, and her stomach twists into knots again.

This would be so much easier if Rachel didn't insist on treating her like she's some misguided twelve-year-old, on pretending that everything is fine and Quinn is normal, like there's nothing complicated or messy about this and she can fix everything with a simple Rachel Berry smile. She just wants Rachel to leave her _alone_.

That's when it hits her.

The nastier she is to her mom—no filter, no holding back, no guilt—the less Judy fights back. She lets Quinn walk all over her, or ignores her completely, which is exactly what she needs from Rachel. If she does this, if she does something to Rachel, it might just be the last straw… enough to make her back off completely.

Maybe The Mack really does understand her best.

She takes a sip from her water bottle and swallows hard, trying to figure out what the fuck she should actually _do_. Slushies are the jocks' thing; same with throwing her into a dumpster. Stealing her lunch money doesn't feel Skank-y enough, nor would it likely stop Rachel from following her around like a fucking babysitter. A swirly… it would do the trick, but the only time she's ever done one solo was with a complete stranger, younger than her, who barely fought back at all. Rachel would be an entirely different story.

Quinn rubs her eyes, wincing at the blister that's forming on her left heel.

(She tells herself she just needs new shoes, and leaves it at that.)

.

When the bell rings, Quinn dumps her stuff in her locker, because going to the auditorium sounds a lot more appealing than having the back of Rachel's head in her determinedly peripheral vision for an hour.

She closes the door and makes it four steps down the hallway before she hears Rachel's voice.

"Quinn, aren't you coming to English?"

"Fuck off, Berry," she growls without turning around, but she doubts Rachel so much as flinched at her response.

As she continues to walk in the opposite direction, she wonders if a swirly would finally get Rachel to leave her alone; if it would get the Skanks to back off; if The Mack would be proud of her.

She thinks about what happened on the couch this morning and shivers.

.

_Quinn heads into the bathroom, leans against the sink, and waits. Within a few minutes she can hear Rachel singing faintly from the choir room across the hall, and she turns a faucet on full blast to drown out the noise. If she wanted to listen to this girl whine about juvenile problems for an hour, she'd go to glee club._

_She thinks about what she might say when Rachel comes through that door. Should she even say anything? With strangers, it's simple; with someone who's younger than you, it's even simpler. But she hasn't done anything against a person she knows, against a fr—_

_Quinn nearly smacks herself across the face when the thought crosses her mind. How many times has The Mack reminded her that they're not her friends, that they've never been there for her and never will be, that she owes them nothing? And honestly, it's a lot easier to believe that than anything that comes out of Rachel's mouth._

_"Oh, hi Quinn!"_

_She snaps to attention and finds Rachel studying her, like she's confused or something._

_"What are you doing?" Rachel asks._

_Quinn remembers that she's standing there with the faucet running. "Washing my hands," she mutters, turning around and holding her palms in the water. "What's it look like?"_

_Rachel nods once. "I see. My apologies."_

_When Quinn hears her open one of the stalls, she pounces before she can think twice. She whips around and grabs Rachel by the shoulders, ignoring her yelps of protest as she tries to push Rachel to her knees._

_"Quinn, please! What on earth—"_

_"**Stop**," she interrupts with a small shove. "Stop talking to me, stop trying to fucking—just **stop**." And then Rachel's face is in the toilet, and she pulls the lever, and she feels Rachel sag beneath her. Quinn stands up and exits the stall. "Stay the **fuck **out of my life," she growls as she leaves the bathroom, slamming the door behind her._

Quinn jerks awake, her body rigid against the mattress and an awful, uneasy feeling in her chest. Her breathing is loud and her hands are shaking; she rolls over, shoves them under her pillow, and squeezes her eyes shut.

She's exactly where she was twenty-four hours ago—nauseous and with a headache—but this time, there's no vodka in her system.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ha ha ha wow hey guys sorry for that teensy hiatus that just happened. I had to survive my last semester of college and things were completely bonkers for a while (and also Fabrastings and Orphan Black happened but it's whatever), but now I'm BACK and here is more story.**

* * *

There are three more swirlies before her alarm goes off, each one exactly the same as the last, and as Quinn drags herself through her morning routine, she thinks she might be more exhausted now than she was before she went to sleep.

She blasts the radio on the way to school, and when she steps out of her car she's grateful for once that her boots give her blisters; the vague stinging keeps her from falling asleep upright. It can't force her brain to function, though, and it takes her four tries to twist the correct combination on her locker. When she almost picks the wrong notebooks she clenches her jaw and hits her forehead against the locker beside hers, because trivial daily tasks should not be this difficult.

The images from last night keep popping up in her head—god, she still can't tune out dream-Rachel's voice pleading for her to stop—and Quinn starts to wonder if she's literally sleepwalking around WMHS right now.

"Maybe if you just… I dunno, toned it down a little, they wouldn't say stuff like that."

"Finn, I refuse to belittle my singing abilities just so our fellow glee club members will feel better about their own. If they would just work harder and genuinely _improve_, they wouldn't have to deal with the talent gap by making subtly hurtful remarks."

There's no _way_ Quinn is conscious, because finding Rachel and Finn arguing in the middle of the hallway is way too great to be reality.

"Look, Rach," he says, digging his hands deep into his pockets; maybe that's where he keeps his Rachel Berry Study Guide. "I know it sucks when they treat you that way, but don't let it bother you. You said it yourself—they only do it because they know how great you are."

Rachel waits a beat. "I guess you're right."

Quinn rolls her eyes just as Finn smiles.

"And, like, that's my point. They already know—_everyone_ knows—so maybe you don't need to prove yourself anymore. Maybe you can, y'know… ease off the gas a bit." He pauses, his smile shrinking. "I meant that as in, the gas pedal in a car. Like, you can slow down and stuff."

"I understood the metaphor, Finn," she says, and apparently Quinn is the only one to notice the exasperation beneath the forced calm.

"Great!" Finn replies, grinning again. "So, I'll see you later?"

"I'll see you later," she echoes, and he leans forward a bit like he's expecting a kiss but she turns and walks away instead. Rachel notices Quinn before she can pretend to not have been listening, and she gets a quiet "Hello, Quinn" as Rachel passes.

She takes a breath to say "Hey" back before she remembers she's supposed to be avoiding Rachel as much as possible, and then she's thinking about those stupid swirlies that didn't actually happen, and she slams her locker door so hard that a girl across the hallway jumps.

.

Quinn only goes to the Skanks' spot under the bleachers in hopes that a cigarette and some adrenalin will wake her up, but instead of finding the whole group, it's just Ronnie reading a book. Ronnie looks up at Quinn's footsteps and shoves it into her jacket pocket, but not before Quinn gets a look at the cover—it's _The Metamorphosis_.

"Mack and Sheila went to break into the vending machine," Ronnie grumbles.

Quinn lights a cigarette. "Okay."

"If you tell _anyone_ about—"

"I really don't care."

Ronnie lights up as well and takes a long drag before letting it out slowly. "It's not even about a butterfly. He's a fucking cockroach thing." She flicks some ash away. "Fucking depressing."

"Only sometimes."

Ronnie's silent for a moment. "Figure out what you're doing to Berry yet?"

Quinn lets out an empty laugh. "So she told you guys about that." She shakes her head. "Like I need a fucking _baby_sitter or something."

"She just likes talking shit about people. She thinks you're gonna flake."

"I won't."

Ronnie gives her a look. "So, what are you gonna do?" she asks again.

"I don't know yet," she replies after a beat, clenching her jaw.

"Mack'll give you hell if you take too long."

She wets her lips and breathes in more smoke. "She'll give me hell no matter what I do."

"Awww, look at you kids bonding," The Mack says from behind Quinn, who does her best not to flinch at her sudden presence. "Whatcha talking about?"

"Nothing," she says automatically, turning to face her.

"Nothing, huh?" The Mack pulls a Twizzler from the pack in her hand and bites off a piece. "Why doesn't Berry look upset?"

Quinn fidgets with the lighter in her pocket but doesn't break eye contact. "I haven't done anything yet."

"Tick, tock, Quinnie."

"I said _yet_," she snaps. "It'll _happen_."

The Mack smirks and takes another bite of her Twizzler. "That's more like it," she purrs, and her breath smells like strawberry candy. "Bitch looks good on you."

Something coils in her stomach. "Fuck you," she replies, trying to sound apathetic rather than flustered but failing miserably, and she walks past The Mack and away from the bleachers.

"I'll think about it," The Mack calls out.

Quinn can't get to the auditorium fast enough.

.

She's been trying to play this melody for ten minutes, the same melody she's been playing since school started, but she keeps fucking it up every single time and her hands are shaking in frustration.

Her finger hits the wrong note again and she slams her elbows down onto the keys, then buries her face in her hands and tries to take deep breaths. She can feel moisture behind her eyes but she pushes it away; they're just tired tears, angry tears, and they have nothing to do with anything else besides the fact that she's fucking exhausted and she can't play this fucking song right.

Quinn sighs finally and folds her arms along the keys, resting her temple against her wrist and letting her eyes droop closed. She just needs a second to relax, and she'll be fine.

_She pounces, grips Rachel by the shoulders, and pushes her to a kneeling position._

"_Quinn, please! What on earth—"_

"_**Stop**__," Quinn interrupts, shoving Rachel closer to the toilet. "Stop trying to talk to me, stop trying to fucking—just __**stop**__." She gives Rachel one last push and then pulls the lever, and she lets go when she feels Rachel sag beneath her. "Stay the __**fuck**__ out of my life," she growls as she leaves the stall._

"_Quinn."_

_She ignores the voice and keeps heading for the door._

"_Quinn," she hears again, and then there's a hand on her shoulder._

The bathroom dissolves around her but the pressure on her shoulder doesn't, and when she opens her eyes, she's looking up at Rachel.

"You were asleep," Rachel says, and her hand is still on Quinn's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

The physical contact and Rachel's voice send a jolt through her system and she abruptly sits up. "I'm fine," Quinn says vaguely as she stuffs her left foot into its boot and reaches for the other one.

"You're welcome to stay if you'd like. I just need to use the piano."

Quinn ties her laces into a hasty knot. "I told you to fuck off," she mutters, not quite managing the hostile, authoritative tone from her dreams, and leaves the stage as quickly as possible.

She needs to get Rachel off her back, and she needs to do it _now_.

.

"Now" ends up being the next day, when she's finally figured out a plan. It's not a swirly (because of reasons that she refuses to overanalyze), and she has to rely on the douchebags of the student body to do what they do best, but it's specific enough to humiliate Rachel, and Quinn doesn't even have to lay a finger on her.

It happens during lunch. Quinn is on her way to pass in a (very) late paper when she rounds a corner just in time to see Rick the Stick fling a slushy at Rachel. Quinn stops in her tracks and heads in the other direction, toward Rachel's locker as fast as her boots will carry her. She takes a piece of paper out of her pocket; Rachel wrote down her combination for Quinn last year when they were working on their mashup, so Quinn could get sheet music while Rachel brainstormed, and it had been sitting in the bottom of her desk drawer until last night.

She spins the dial and the lock clicks open and she all but yanks it from the door. What she's looking for is immediately right in front of her face: Rachel's spare set of clothes is folded neatly on top of a collapsible plastic shelf. Quinn grabs them and closes the locker, taking the lock with her as she goes to the bathroom down the hall.

The stalls are empty and she's glad she doesn't have an audience as she puts Rachel's clothes in the nearest sink and turns both of the faucet knobs on full blast. It's not that she feels bad about what she's doing… she just knows it's a completely dick move. But that's the point, the whole reason why she needs to do it in the first place. She needs Rachel to understand that she's done being the Quinn Fabray that Rachel's convinced is still there somewhere, done letting Rachel think she's ever going back to the version of herself that everyone pretended to like.

She's _done_, and she needs Rachel to be done, too.

Quinn leans back against the wall as Rachel's clothes continue to soak, twirling the lock around on her index finger as she waits.

It barely takes any time at all; the door opens and Rachel appears, her sweater drenched in strawberry corn syrup, and her eyes are glassy and disbelieving as she looks from Quinn to the lock to her clothes in the sink and then back to Quinn.

"Quinn," she says quietly, and her voice cracks. "What—?"

"Stop," Quinn interrupts, her voice low and firm, and she places the lock on the base of the sink, near the faucet. "Stop trying to talk to me, stop trying to f—" The "fix me" gets caught in her throat and she clenches her jaw. "Just fucking _stop_."

Rachel swallows thickly, and after a beat, nods. "Okay."

Quinn leaves the bathroom without another word, but the door swings closed just slowly enough that she can hear Rachel turn the faucet off.

She goes directly to the bleachers, keeping her mind completely blank except for the sentence "I did it," so she can tell The Mack and get her off her back and return to being the money counter. Quinn thinks this might actually be the first time she's looked forward to interacting with her, let alone been happy to see her leaning against one of the support columns.

"Hey, kiddo," The Mack greets, her tone overly sweet as she gives Quinn a once-over, as if it's obvious what she's just done. "Got anything to share with the class?"

Quinn takes out a cigarette and brings it to her lips. "I did it," she mutters as she tries to get her lighter to work.

The Mack's smirk widens. "Did what? Come on, don't hold out on us," she says, gesturing to Ronnie and Sheila, who are both sitting on the couch.

"The thing you wanted me to do to Berry," she replies, and she hates how close she comes to saying "Rachel" by accident. "It's done."

Sheila rolls her eyes. "_Details_, bitch."

Quinn takes a long drag and holds it in for a beat. "Somebody slushied her, so I broke into her locker and stole her extra clothes." She flicks some ash away. "Then I soaked them in the bathroom sink so she couldn't change."

The Mack crosses her arms. "Does she know it was you?"

"Yeah," Quinn replies, wetting her lips. "She knows."

She looks positively delighted. "Well _shit_, I'm impressed. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Surprise," Quinn deadpans, then puts out her cigarette. "I gotta go."

The Mack's attention is already back on Ronnie and Sheila, who are plotting revenge against some teacher Quinn doesn't know, so she turns away and starts back toward the school, wincing a bit with every other step.

Fucking blisters.

.

Quinn's the second-to-last person to get to her English class; Rachel arrives just before the bell, practically swimming in what looks like one of Finn's button-up flannel shirts, cinched at her waist to keep it from looking like a really short dress, and there's a single blotch of slushy still visible on her skirt.

Quinn's heart is racing and she tells herself it's just adrenalin, the satisfaction from a job well done.

Rachel doesn't say hello to Quinn, doesn't even look in her direction, and she sits in Quinn's row, several seats ahead, so Quinn can only see her if she leans over.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, wondering if there's a difference between feeling like the weight's been lifted off your shoulders and feeling empty.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's a riddle: If it takes me three months to write a 2,200-word chapter and it takes me three days to write a 4,200-word chapter, how long will it take me to finish this entire fic?**

* * *

"Are you ready to apologize?"

At Rachel's question, Quinn nearly drops the book she's taking out of her locker; she whips around with about twenty different insults lodged in her throat, because they were doing _such_ a great job with this zero-interaction thing, but Rachel is across the hall talking to Finn.

His facial expression is a mix of pouting and confusion as he takes in her tightly crossed arms and rigid posture. "I don't get why you're still mad," he mumbles, scratching his head anxiously.

"Finn," she begins, her voice slow and careful, "We've been either pursuing each other or dating on and off for approximately two years now. You should be able to remember that I'm a _vegan_."

He shrugs. "I'm sorry, okay? There's just—a lot of things that I'm supposed to remember about you, and it gets confusing sometimes—"

"Then forget my birthday if you must, or what my top five favorite Broadway shows are, because those don't result in me staying up all night vomiting."

"Look, I said I was sorry. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Quinn knows she should be getting as far from this conversation, from these people, as possible, but she can't make her feet move.

Rachel sighs. "Yes," she says, her voice tight.

Finn gives her a lopsided smile and lifts his hand to caress her cheek; Quinn's stomach churns and she clenches her jaw. "So what d'you say we move past this? I'll try harder to remember stuff, I promise."

If he's bothered by the long pause before Rachel's "Of course," he doesn't show it.

"Come on," he says, reaching for her hand, "I'll walk you to class."

Rachel doesn't let him take it. "Actually, I'm going to go to the choir room to make up for the lost practice time. I'll see you later." She leans up and gives him a peck on the cheek before walking away, and his smile shrinks just a little.

"It ain't polite to stare."

Quinn flinches at the sound of The Mack's voice in her ear and she immediately turns back to her own locker, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "I wasn't staring."

The Mack leans sideways against the locker next to Quinn's. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret." She winks, and then she's gone.

Quinn tries to keep her breathing even as a lump rises in her throat, as her eyes start to burn, and after a long moment she manages to push it all back down. She closes her locker and heads to class, because teachers don't get in your personal space or ask invasive questions or know things about you that could ruin everything; they assign homework that doesn't hurt anyone and give grades that don't make you sick to your stomach.

European history is so much easier to deal with than her own.

.

As she sits in her car in the quickly emptying parking lot, she realizes she has no idea where to go. Hanging out with the Skanks means constant reminders of the person she's expected to be, never-ending scrutiny, satisfaction that only lasts for moments at a time; she hasn't been to the auditorium since Rachel woke her up, because she's too paranoid to think Rachel won't walk in on her again; and going home means dealing with her mom, which is getting more and more unbearable every day.

On the other hand, her mom is the only person she can be a bitch to and get away with it, so maybe that's her best option.

When Quinn walks through the front door she's greeted with silence; on the kitchen table there's a note that says "_Out to dinner with a friend from college. Won't be home till late. Love, Mom._"

She crumples the note and throws it in the trash, then goes up to her room, plugs in her mp3 player, and cranks the volume. Quinn goes to her dresser and opens the polished wooden jewelry box sitting on top, and something catches her eye: it's her silver cross necklace, peeking out from the bottom of the pile.

Little by little she removes her bracelets and necklaces, all the stupid shit she's bought with the Skanks at thrift shops, and piles them on top until it's completely buried.

.

_The hallway is empty as she heads to her locker, but then she sees that Rachel's is still missing its lock. She frowns and opens the door and finds what looks like Finn's shirt and jeans folded neatly on the shelf._

_Her stomach lurches; she doubles over and throws up, but instead of bile coming from her throat, it's water. More comes up before she can take a breath and soon she's hunched on her hands and knees, trying so hard to get oxygen into her lungs as the water keeps pouring out._

_It finally stops and she gulps in as much air as she can, but then she realizes there's water trickling out of Rachel's open locker now. Quinn scoots backwards, away from the locker, but then the trickle becomes an enormous stream and suddenly the entire hallway is flooded. She can't feel the floor anymore and she struggles to stay afloat, but her boots are too heavy, weighing her down and pulling her deeper into the water._

_She thinks she sees a head of long brown hair disappear around the corner and she tries to call out, but her mouth is filled with water again and she only manages a few weak gurgling sounds._

.

"You look like _shit_," is the first thing out of The Mack's mouth when Quinn shows up under the bleachers the next day.

"Wow," Quinn mutters around the cigarette she's lighting, "That really hurts my feelings."

The Mack snorts. "Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"More like the fact that I woke up at all, actually."

Ronnie's looking at her carefully. "Seriously, what's up with you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, I'm _fine_. Is there nothing else we can talk about besides 'Why isn't Quinn a ray of fucking sunshine today?'"

"Why would I change the subject when this one pisses you off so much?"

Quinn glares at The Mack. "Look, if you guys aren't going to distract me from—"

"From what?" she interrupts, cocking her head to the side, a dangerous gleam in her eye.

"Nothing," Quinn mutters, putting all of her focus into flicking away some ash. "Forget about it."

The Mack shoves away from the column she's leaning against and starts to walk toward her slowly. "But now I'm concerned," she says, her tone overly-serious. "Something troubling you?"

Quinn looks her square in the eye. "Nothing. I'm fine." But she's not, because her heart skips a beat with every step forward that The Mack takes.

"Come on," she continues, "We're your closest friends. Tell us what's wrong." By now she's directly in front of Quinn, and she takes a long drag from her cigarette. "You can trust us," she says, the words coming out as smoke that swirls between their faces.

Quinn drops her cigarette to the ground without looking away. "I have to go."

The Mack smirks. "Of course you do."

She bites her bottom lip as she walks away to stop it from trembling. She needs to find somewhere she can just _breathe_ for a second, and the bathroom is the only place she can think of, so she ducks into the first one she comes to.

Quinn grips the left and right edges of one of the sinks, stares into space as she lets out a shuddering breath, clenches her jaw as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat. She looks down into the empty sink and remembers Rachel's clothes, remembers her dream from last night, and just as she starts to feel moisture building behind her eyes, she glances into the mirror.

In one of the stalls is a set of feet wearing dark purple flats and argyle knee socks.

Quinn practically chokes on air as something in her chest clenches; she sniffs back the tears and all but runs out of the bathroom, and she has to actively resist kicking off her boots as she heads to her locker. She grabs the notebook for the class she's ten minutes late for, slams the door, and starts walking toward the science wing.

Where the fuck _else_ is she gonna go?

.

By the time lunch rolls around she's absolutely had it with this building, where there are people everywhere and doors she can't lock, because for the love of God, she just wants to be _alone_. She doesn't want to talk to anybody, doesn't want to _look_ at anybody and see their judgment or disappointment or both, because she's just _done_.

That's why, when she walks around the corner and sees Sheila and Ronnie cornering Rachel down the hallway, she stops dead in her tracks.

Ronnie is gesturing at Rachel's pockets and Rachel shakes her head. "I-I'm sorry," she stutters, "I don't have a sufficient amount this week. My dads had to get the car inspected to there's been a slight delay in my allowance—"

"Whatever, Berry," Sheila interrupts. "Give us what you have on you and you'll owe double next time."

Rachel pulls out a few ones. "I only brought enough to buy a snack after school."

"Sounds great," Ronnie replies with a smirk, taking the money and tucking it away. "We're done here."

Rachel nods once. "Have a lovely afternoon," she says quietly before walking away.

Maybe she hates that they're still bullying Rachel after what Quinn did to her, or maybe she just hates that they're interacting with Rachel in general when her own rule is that she can't, but whatever the reason is, the only thought in her mind right now is _fuck this_.

"Why did you do that?" she demands, heading toward Ronnie and Sheila

Sheila cocks an eyebrow. "Do _what_?"

"Did Mack tell you to do it? Does she think I didn't do enough?"

"Quinn, what the fuck—"

"We've put her through enough shit already," she says, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "Leave her alone."

Sheila's expression shifts into a glare. "Like hell I'm gonna leave her alone. Stay the fuck out of it."

"Quinn," Ronnie starts, but Quinn ignores her and gets as close to Sheila as she dares.

"Stay away from her," she says coldly through gritted teeth.

Sheila shoves her backwards. "Why d'you care so much, huh?"

Quinn shoves her harder. "I don't."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, bitch."

Quinn clenches her jaw. "Shut up."

Ronnie looks her square in the eye. "Or what?"

Quinn pushes her again, this time back against the lockers with a dull clang. Ronnie retaliates right away, shoving Quinn with enough force to make her grunt.

"Don't start a fight you ain't ready for," Sheila pants, nostrils flaring.

"Don't give someone hell who doesn't deserve it," Quinn growls in response.

"Quinn, what are you doing?"

She hasn't heard that voice say her name in days and it catches her attention automatically; Rachel is standing a few yards away, her expression a strange mix of confusion and anger and concern.

Before Quinn has time to figure out what to say, a fist collides with her mouth and her head jerks back, her bottom lip exploding in pain. She tastes blood and winds up to return the favor but a firm hand grips her wrist; for a split second she wonders if it's The Mack's and she freezes.

"Never thought I'd be dragging _you_ down to the office," Coach Sylvester says, and Quinn relaxes just a little.

Mr. Schue has appeared as well and he gestures to Sheila. "You, too—let's go."

Quinn loses track of Ronnie and Rachel as they're escorted to Principal Figgins's office, and when they cross the threshold, his eyes dart back and forth between Quinn and Sheila.

"We caught these two posterchildren for teenage rebellion having a little skirmish in the hallway," Coach Sylvester explains.

"It was just some pushing and shoving," Mr. Schuester adds, "One punch."

"Would've been two if we'd intervened any later." She leans slightly toward Quinn. "You could've taken her," she mutters under her breath.

Figgins sighs. "Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?" he asks, glancing from Quinn to Sheila again, but neither of them responds. "Well, as small as this fight allegedly was, we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence here at McKinley. You two will stay after school this afternoon for detention."

"Whatever," Sheila mutters with a roll of her eyes.

"I will also be contacting your parents to inform them of your violation of policy. Please take a seat in the meantime."

Quinn's heart is sinks, because she really didn't want to involve her mom in any of this, but she follows Sheila beyond the first doorway and into the waiting area.

Rachel is sitting in one of the chairs, and Quinn freezes.

Sheila slumps into a seat at the other end of the row, which leaves Quinn to sit smack in the middle of them.

She gently touches a fingertip to her bottom lip and grimaces at the bruise she can already feel forming.

"Are you okay?"

Rachel's question is so quiet, so careful, and Quinn can't bear to look at her.

"I'm fine," she mumbles back.

"Are you sure?"

"Miss Fabray," Principal Figgins interrupts from the next room, "I have your mother on the phone and she would like to speak with you."

Quinn rolls her eyes and goes back into the office and Figgins hands her the phone. "Hello?"

"Quinnie! Principal Figgins just told me what happened—"

"It's really not a big deal," she interrupts, because her mom sounds way too freaked out about this. "It was barely even a fight."

There's a beat of hesitation. "It wasn't about…" Her voice drops slightly. "You didn't _tell_ anyone, did you? Was it because of that?"

Quinn is barely breathing as she holds the phone in a white-knuckle grip, because her mom is so terrified of this _thing_ that she can't even talk about it, and yet as soon as something bad happens, it's the first reason she jumps to.

She puts the phone back on its receiver and leaves the office without another word.

Tears are welling in her eyes as she books it down the hallway and she's not sure she can stop them this time, and she needs to find a place to explode where no one will be around to watch her. She passes the bathrooms one by one, skipping all of them because it's almost the end of the period and they'll all be full in a few minutes, and she's heading out of the building and toward the auditorium before she makes the conscious decision to do so.

Rachel is still in the office for all she knows, and Quinn can't imagine her skipping their English class, so she figures it's as safe a bet as any; and does she really have another option?

She stumbles up to the stage and right past the piano, sinking to the floor behind the stage-left curtain, bringing her knees to her chest and digging her fingers into her hair and taking deep breaths.

And then she's crying.

It's the first time she's let anything out in months, and her lungs are practically aching as her ragged breaths escalate to sobs, because she's so fucking _angry_.

.

_She's never been so scared in her life, not even when she had to tell her dad she was pregnant, because this doesn't just change nine months of their lives; this changes __**everything**__._

"_Mom?" she whispers, so quietly that Judy doesn't hear her, so she clears her throat and repeats it a bit louder. "Mom."_

_Judy looks up from her dinner. "Yes?"_

_Quinn opens her mouth to speak but the words are stuck again, like they've been every time she's tried to do this since school ended._

"_Quinnie, what is it?"_

_She swallows thickly. "I need to tell you something."_

"_Okay," Judy says, but her tone is too light, too casual; she has no idea what's coming._

_Quinn wets her lips and takes a slow, deep breath in and out. Her voice shakes as she says it, and she feels dizzy, like she might throw up, but the words are in the air for the first time and she prays to God that her mom will take them gracefully._

_Judy blinks at her, then puts her fork down and takes a sip of water. "Oh," she says finally, and it sounds like she's working hard to stifle whatever emotions are trying to manifest._

"_Is that…" Quinn's mouth is dry. "Okay?"_

"_Does anyone else know?"_

_She's barely breathing. "No. You're the first person I've told."_

_Her mom nods slowly. "Okay."_

_There's a heavy silence before Quinn finally summons the nerve to speak again. "Can you just…" She wishes her pulse would steady. "Clarify? What you're okay with?"_

"_Quinnie," Judy begins softly, putting her glass of water down and folding her hands in her lap. "I already lost you once." She meets Quinn's eyes. "I don't plan to lose you again."_

_Quinn is shaking in her chair. "So—?"_

"_So, I still love you." Judy gives her a small smile. "We're okay, Quinn. You're okay."_

_She launches herself at her mom and wraps her arms around her tightly, unable to stop her tears from pouring out. "Thank you," she whispers._

_Judy returns her embrace with equal strength._

.

She's crying even harder now, and she's terrified she'll never be able to stuff this wave of emotions back into its box.

.

_There's a soft knock on her door and she puts down the book she's reading. "Come in," she calls out._

_Judy enters, and her hand doesn't let go of the doorknob. "Sweetie, can I talk to you for a moment?"_

"_Yeah," she says, wondering why her mom's voice is so strange._

_Judy's eyes are on the carpet. "I… just got off the phone with your father."_

"_You what?" Quinn sits up a little in her bed. "Mom, what's going on?"_

_She finally looks at Quinn. "I told him." Before Quinn can ask her to elaborate, she speaks again. "What you told me."_

_Quinn's mind is going a million miles an hour. "Why did you do that?" she manages._

"_I—I thought he had the right to know."_

"_Mom, you __**know**__ how he is! The whole reason I told you—"_

"_Quinn, please," she interrupts, her voice way too neutral. "We discussed the issue"—Quinn's eyes begin to sting—"And he said… __**We**__," she corrects, "have decided you should see someone."_

_A tear slides down Quinn's cheek. "What are you talking about?"_

_Judy crosses her arms and she isn't looking Quinn in the eye anymore. "He gave me the number of an excellent psychologist, one of the best in the state."_

"_Are you serious?" Quinn's voice is barely working. "I thought…" She swallows thickly. "I thought you said it was okay," she finishes, and her voice cracks._

"_You're just—" Judy cuts herself off. "Everything is going to be fine, Quinnie. Your father has your best interests in mind. The sooner we can all move past this, the better. Okay?" Her mom's eyes are glassy as she nods, and she doesn't wait for Quinn to respond before she leaves and closes the door behind her._

.

Her mom let Russell kick Quinn out of their house, and then she let him force her into a summer's worth of pointless therapy. She fucking hates it, that Judy lets herself be controlled by someone who doesn't even live with them anymore, how she's so terrified of the man she married that even though they've divorced, she still gives him the final word.

She hates her parents, she hates God for deciding that she deserves all of this, and she hates herself for everything she did to piss him off so much.

"Quinn?"

The voice is quiet, but it makes her jump like someone just held a blow horn right to her ear. She looks up through blurry eyes to see Rachel kneeling in front of her, wearing those stupid dark purple flats and argyle knee socks. "Leave me alone," she mutters, but the words don't sound nearly as authoritative or menacing as she means them to.

Rachel shifts a little and folds her hands neatly in her lap. "You defended me today. Don't I get to help _you_?"

Quinn brings her legs tighter into her chest and squeezes her fingers into even smaller fists. "I don't need your help. I don't need anybody's help." She's practically choking on the lump in her throat. "I just need everyone to leave me alone."

"Quinn—"

"_What_?" she half-yells, half-sobs, and she's trying so hard to get her breathing under control. "What do you _want_?"

Rachel is silent for a beat as she searches Quinn's eyes for something. "Quinn, we both know you've been pushing everyone away on purpose. It's obvious. And that doesn't mean your behavior is excusable, but I _know_ it's not who you really are." She reaches out slowly and places her hand over Quinn's fist. "I know, because you just showed me."

Quinn looks at their hands for a long moment, her own trembling, before lifting her eyes to Rachel's. "Please," she says, her voice cracking as more tears slide down her cheeks.

"Please what?" Rachel's eyes are so, so warm.

"_Go_," she chokes out.

Rachel squeezes again. "I'm not going anywhere," she says, brushing her thumb back and forth against the back of Quinn's hand.

Quinn takes a ragged breath and tries to make the tears stop. "Why?" she whispers.

"Because that's what friends do."

Now Quinn is practically hyperventilating, because this is all wrong. She isn't supposed to talk to Rachel or look at Rachel, and Rachel isn't supposed to touch her or comfort her—and why doesn't she hate Quinn for what she did? They aren't even _close_ to being friends.

"Shhh," Rachel whispers, "Quinn, you need to breathe."

She swallows and buries her fingers in her hair and tries to calm her breathing or stop crying, anything to make her seem less weak and more in control. "Why are you here?" she croaks.

Rachel nibbles her lip for a moment. "Why do you hang out with the Skanks?"

Her breathing stalls. "What?"

"Quinn…" She opens and closes her mouth a few times. "You're miserable."

Quinn pulls her hand away and crosses her arms again, her nostrils flaring even as more tears fall. "You don't know anything," she grits out.

"I know _some_ things," Rachel says quietly. "I know you're in pain. I-I… I can _see_ it, Quinn."

She clenches her jaw; her bottom lip is trembling. "Fuck you," she manages, but her voice cracks on the curse.

"Is that supposed to hurt me?"

The question feels like a slap to the face, a punch to the gut, because words have gone from being her best weapon against Rachel to being her best defense against Rachel to being absolutely worthless.

What's she supposed to do now?

"Quinn," Rachel says softly, "There's nothing you can say to me that will make me walk away."

The statement sends a jolt through Quinn's body and her breathing is getting erratic again, and Rachel tilts her head a little, studying her carefully.

"Why does that upset you so much?"

Because she can't trust her own parents to love her unconditionally, so why should she trust someone who has three years' worth of reasons to hate her?

Rachel shifts just a few inches closer and smoothes her skirt, then looks Quinn square in the eye. "Whatever it is you're holding in… you can tell me anything," she says, her words slow and firm. "No matter what, I won't judge you."

Quinn shakes her head, because she's told two people so far and neither scenario turned out well, and she's not putting herself through that shit ever again. But even as she stares determinedly at her lap, she thinks about how Rachel's the only one who's asked her what's wrong, if she's okay, who hasn't _stopped_ asking, who's explicitly promised that she won't judge. She's the one who took lead on "Keep Holding On," the one who was there after Finn found out Puck was Beth's father, who followed Quinn to the bathroom at prom and stayed even after the undeserved slap.

Her heart begins to pound, two words slip out. "Not here."

It's so quiet that it's barely even a whisper, but Rachel seems to hear it perfectly. "Okay," she says softly, nodding. "Would you like to come to my house?" She must see the panic in Quinn's eyes, because she adds "My dads are both at work and won't be home until later."

Quinn swallows thickly; she can't make herself say no, and it scares the shit out of her.

"It'll be safe," Rachel says, standing up and holding out her hand, "I promise."

No one's ever said _that_ before, and maybe that's why she lets Rachel pull her to her feet.


	6. Chapter 6

She follows Rachel out of the parking lot and through town until they're pulling into the Berrys driveway, but she doesn't get out immediately. She's got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, because going inside means talking, _really talking_, and that kind of thing tends to end badly for her.

Rachel hasn't moved either, and Quinn wonders if she's trying to make her feel like she's not being rushed, and that helps slow her pulse just a little. Finally she unbuckles her seatbelt, takes her keys out of the ignition, and opens the door. Rachel follows suit and leads her into the house, and then she's standing in the Berrys' foyer for the second time in her life, for an entirely different reason than the first.

"Wait here for one second, okay?" Rachel asks before disappearing into the kitchen. Quinn hears a refrigerator open and close and when Rachel comes back, she's holding out an ice pack. "For your mouth."

Quinn takes it after a beat and presses it gently to her lip, and the cold feels good. "Thanks," she mumbles against the plastic.

Rachel nods a little. "There's no one else in the house right now, but we can go upstairs if that would make you more comfortable."

"Um," she begins, glancing from the living room to the kitchen to the stairs. "U-upstairs. I think."

Rachel gives her a small smile and says "Okay," then Quinn follows her up to the second floor and through a door with a large gold star taped to it. She closes it behind them, and Quinn is grateful for the unnecessary extra privacy within the empty house.

Rachel adjusts the pillows on her bed and sits on the mattress with her back to them, and when she sees that Quinn is still lingering by the door, she pats the spot next to her. "Come sit?" she asks softly.

Quinn takes a deep breath and walks around to the other side of the bed. She takes a seat and immediately brings her knees to her chest, staring hard at the design on Rachel's quilt until the colors all run together.

"Is that helping?"

She adjusts the ice pack a bit. "Yeah."

Rachel nods in her peripheral vision, and now she's fidgeting with the corner of one of her pillows. "What's been going on? She asks softly.

"It's complicated," Quinn says after a beat, and her hands are already trembling just a little.

"Try me."

Her throat is thick and her eyes are starting to burn. "Rachel, it's…" she begins, but her mind goes blank; she doesn't even know where to begin.

"It's what?"

"I don't _know_, okay?" Quinn snaps, her grip on the ice pack tightening. "It's a fucking…" She clenches her jaw. "It's a fucking mess, and I don't…" Quinn loses the words again and tilts her head back against the headboard, trying to keep the tears from pushing through. Rachel says nothing, apparently waiting for her to continue. "There's something—I've only told two people, and they both…" The lump in her throat is growing bigger by the second.

Rachel shifts a little so she's facing her more directly. "Quinn, whatever's happened in the past, I promise I won't—" She pauses when a tear rolls down Quinn's cheek, and when she speaks again, her voice is impossibly gentle. "What's wrong?"

It's stuck in her throat, on the back of her tongue, on the roof of her mouth, behind her teeth; it rattles around with every breath she takes, and she can't tell if it's fighting desperately to stay in or slip out. She wants so badly to trust Rachel, but what if this is some wildly elaborate scheme to humiliate Quinn, to finally get revenge for all the shit she's put Rachel through?

But then she forces herself to meet Rachel's eyes, and they're so warm and genuine and honest that for a single moment, Quinn forgets about her racing heart and trembling hands and then the words are in the air. "I'm gay," she whispers, and her voice cracks; then the moment is over and she realizes what she's done, what she's said, and her world turns completely blurry. Her cheeks are wet again and she sets the ice pack down and wipes away the moisture with her sleeve, and her attempted deep breath is shaky and shallow.

Rachel blinks at her. "Oh," she says lightly, like she's surprised and trying not to show it.

Quinn stiffens and immediately moves to get off the bed, because she _knew_ this was an awful idea and she _knew_ she couldn't trust anybody and she—

"No no no, it's okay!" Rachel insists, putting her hand over Quinn's to hold it there. "Please, I just—I didn't mean… It's _okay_," she finishes finally, and her tone is steady and sincere.

Quinn hesitates, because _"Okay"_ is something she's heard before only to have it yanked from under her feet, and she's not sure she'd survive it again.

"It's really not—" Rachel is still searching for the right thing to say. "I'm a Sagittarius!" is what she comes up with a moment later, and Quinn raises a confused and wary eyebrow at her. "What? You shared something completely normal about yourself. I reciprocated."

Quinn shakes her head slowly, because normal things don't rot in the pit of your stomach or burn holes in your throat or make you feel like you're constantly walking through wet cement.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, o-or said the wrong thing. I didn't mean to." Rachel hasn't let go of Quinn's hand. "Please stay?"

Her lip aches dully as she thinks about what it might be like to walk out the door right now, to go home and pretend like this afternoon never happened, to go back to school tomorrow and keep treating Rachel like she doesn't exist. Then she thinks about staying here, about talking and being listened to, and about the way Rachel's hand feels on hers—how she not only hasn't left Quinn, but she won't let Quinn leave _her_.

She slowly pulls away and she can see Rachel trying not to look upset, but then Quinn grabs the ice pack again and sits back on the bed, staring at her knees. "I told my mom," she says quietly.

Rachel snaps back to attention. "Was she upset?"

"No," Quinn replies, shaking her head as angry tears fill her eyes. "She said she still loved me, and we were okay."

Rachel frowns. "But… that's _great_. I thought you said—"

"Then she called my dad," Quinn interrupts, "and told _him_. And he…" Her throat is closing up again as she wipes away a tear, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when Rachel's hand covers her own again, her thumb brushing against Quinn's knuckles. "He said it's a phase. That it's not how God made me, that I'll go to hell if I—" Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. "My mom's the one who talked to him, but it's easy enough to guess."

"What did she do?"

"She agreed with him." Rachel's hand is so warm and steady against hers, and she really wishes she could stop crying. "She agreed that it's a phase, and then she agreed that I should talk to a shrink."

Rachel's grip tightens a little. "Quinn… I'm so sorry."

She just sniffs and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

"What about the Skanks?" Rachel asks suddenly, like she's just remembered this is the question she's had for weeks.

Quinn runs her tongue lightly over the cut on her lip. "My parents think I'm going through a phase; that I'm just being rebellious. And I figured if that's what they really want, I might as well give it to them. I just changed the way I look, showed the Skanks how angry I was… they loved it. It was easy."

"But," Rachel interjects quietly, "I've seen you with them. It's not easy anymore."

Rachel's words are heavy in the pit of her stomach, and Quinn doesn't respond.

"So why do you stay?"

Quinn swallows thickly. "The thing about being a Skank," she says, then clenches her jaw for a moment, "is you have to tell them something you hate about yourself."

The room seems to go completely silent as Rachel processes the words. "So you… Quinn, are they holding that over you?"

Quinn says nothing as the question crashes through her head like a bullet.

"That's… that's _abominable_," Rachel gasps, sounding horrified and a little bit close to tears herself. "Why would you—" she begins, but then pauses to steady her voice. "Why didn't you talk to anyone in glee club?"

"No," Quinn says, shaking her head, even though she knows that doesn't answer the question.

"Quinn—"

She shakes her head harder. "No, I just—I can't," she chokes out, and her eyes are wet again.

"Why?"

"What, should I just add it to the list?" she snaps. "Quinn cheated on her boyfriend, Quinn had sex before marriage, Quinn got pregnant at seventeen, Quinn was disowned by her parents, and now Quinn isn't straight." Her breaths are escalating to sobs. "God, that Quinn is such a _fuck_-up, isn't she?"

"No," Rachel replies firmly, "She's not."

Quinn would argue if she could stop crying.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Quinn. We mess up, we feel awful, we apologize, and we forgive each other." Rachel's hand is on her shoulder now. "Your sexuality isn't one of those mistakes. You haven't done anything wrong—you've just discovered a new piece of who you are."

"I don't _want_ it," she bursts, "I just want to be _normal_. Why can't I just be…" Quinn completely dissolves as Rachel's arm goes around her shoulders, maybe in an effort to make them stop shaking as she cries, and her body is flooded with warmth. She feels anchored, _protected_, and suddenly very tired, and though she fights herself every step of the way, she eventually lets her head fall into the crook of Rachel's neck.

Rachel's hold on her tightens automatically and Quinn's mind goes to the last time someone held her like this—her mom, right after Quinn came out—and now she's hyperventilating against Rachel's shirt.

"Shhhhh, breathe," Rachel whispers into her ear.

Quinn just lets out another sob. "She said it was okay," she croaks, her hand curling into a fist in her lap. She flinches again when Rachel's covers it a third time.

"I know," Rachel murmurs as her thumb brushes back and forth along the back of Quinn's palm. "I know she betrayed you, and I know your dad is cruel, and I know the Skanks aren't much better. But Quinn…"

She's pretty sure her heart stops beating.

"I know who you are," Rachel says softly, "and I accept you. _All_ of you. Every single part."

Quinn shatters under the weight of Rachel's words, these things she'd given up hoping for a long time ago because she was so sure they were impossible. She curls in on herself and her head ends up in Rachel's lap, and she feels bad that she's crying all over Rachel's skirt, but then she remembers the clothes in the sink and she wants to scream. "I'm sorry," she sobs instead, glad that she doesn't have to look at Rachel as she says it.

"Quinn, you don't have to apologize—"

"I've been a monster to you," she chokes out, "I've been so—"

"I forgive you," Rachel replies without hesitation, and Quinn is gone.

She cries so hard that she almost feels sick, but then Rachel is rubbing her back gently and it gets just a little bit easier to breathe. It seems to take an eternity, but eventually her lungs calm and her tears slow, and by the time she realizes her eyes are still closed, she doesn't have the energy to open them.

.

When Quinn wakes up the room is significantly darker, and she's about to nuzzle deeper into her pillow before she realizes that one, it's not her room, and two, the pillow she's using isn't a pillow. She sits up a little and finds Rachel fast asleep, her hand slipping from Quinn's lower back as Quinn shifts. She swallows hard and slowly gets off the bed, her heart hammering, because she's told Rachel everything and fallen asleep in her bed and she has no fucking clue where to go from here.

So she does the easiest thing—and probably the worst thing—and leaves. She opens and closes the door as quietly as possible and slips out of the house, wincing at the noise as she starts her car and pulls out of the driveway.

The entire way home her mind bounces back and forth between The Mack's smirks and Rachel's warm eyes, The Mack's cigarettes and Rachel's gentle hands, and by the time she opens the front door she's confused and frustrated and ready to slam her head against the wall.

"Where have you been?" her mom asks, her tone not at all pleased.

Quinn continues taking off her boots without turning around. "Out."

"Now is not the time to be fresh with me. Principal Figgins called and said you missed your detention. Where were you?"

She takes her time placing her boots next to the door and looks her mom in the eye. "None of your fucking business," she says as she passes Judy once to grab leftover pizza from the fridge, then again to go back up to her room, and Judy does nothing except stand there with her arms crossed over her chest.

When Quinn gets to the top stair she pauses; she thinks about turning around, about getting in her mom's face and making her understand exactly why she chose the Skanks, why she's so angry, how much her mom hurt her. But then she glances back down and Judy is already gone, and she clenches her jaw and slams her bedroom door behind her.

Quinn sits on the edge of her bed and slowly leans over, curling up on her side, and takes out her phone. After a long moment of staring at the screen, she finally begins to type.

**Thank you.**

She hesitates before hitting "send," because maybe Rachel is mad that she left without saying anything, but she makes herself press the button and pretends to not be relieved when she gets an immediate response.

**Thank you for talking to me. I know it couldn't have been easy.**

Quinn runs her tongue over the cut on her lip and reads the message over and over again until the screen goes dark, but then it vibrates and Rachel's name pops up a second time.

**You're really brave, Quinn.**

She rolls onto her back and tries to blink away the moisture in her eyes, wondering what The Mack is going to do to her when Sheila tells her what happened, wondering what Rachel will expect of her now that Quinn has s pilled her guts.

Wondering how she could possibly be considered brave when all she ever does is run away.


End file.
